The Weighing of the Pen
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: He was at home when the Foundation called and said they would be sending someone out with his dog. Jack paused. “What dog?” “Your guide dog, Mr. O’Neill.” S/J, cos its a beautiful thing.
1. The Pen

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Sadly.

* * *

**The Weighing of the Pen **

Jack had heard, somewhere, he wasn't sure where, exactly – that when a person goes blind, their other senses increase to compensate.

He couldn't help wondering, if, perhaps, this had anything to do with the sudden extreme weight of the pen in his hand. The peculiar roughness of the paper under his fingertips he understood, but the weight of the pen…

He could hear her breathing, very close by, and knew she was going to speak by the sudden heavier inhale.

"Sir…"

"I can sign them, Carter."

Her hand touched his, and he fought not to flinch, not to turn his fingers and grasp hers, to press some kind of comfort on her.

Odd, really, that she was comforting him, rather than the other way round. And was this another part blindness, to suddenly speak in low, solemn tones. He hoped not, but it was all he seemed to do these days.

Another quick inhale.

"Yes, Sir."

His fingers moved carefully over the page. There was a subtle change in texture where the printed words were. The dried ink was smoother than the paper's surface, and it was merely a matter of finding the dotted line.

"Here?"

"Yes, Sir, the date's already been filled in, below it."

On second thoughts, maybe it wasn't just being blind that resulted in low, solemn tones, because she kept doing it too. Although in her case, it might be to keep from crying.

She hated this, he realized. She was grieving for his career, effectively up in smoke. Smoke lingers, though, and so would Jack O'Neill. He was too important at this stage of the game, had too many offworld allies who would only speak when faced with _his_ face.

But there would be no more missions. No more gate travel. No more spaceships, or fire fights, or covert ops.

No more saving the world.

Jack penned his signature from muscle memory and sat back with a sigh.

There was a soft catch in her breath, and he felt her hand take up tentative residence on his shoulder. He rested his hand over hers, pressing that small comfort on her.

Perhaps, with retirement, there would be time for pottery, and cartoons he couldn't see and fishing at the cabin. Perhaps there would be time for a dog, maybe even a need for one.

He pressed Sam's fingers again. Perhaps there would be time for _them_.

* * *

**AN:** So...thoughts, questions? Reviews would be nice, too. Also, to be continued, or are you content to leave it at that? Let me know. 


	2. Night Light

**AN:** Short, I know. But this story lends itself to brevity. Keep in mind, this is a drabble-fic; snapshots of a situation, little moments. And don't worry, I'll pull up on the Jack-whump soon.

* * *

**Night Light**

It was a trap.

The Ancients had left a trap. Intended for those 'unworthy' of their knowledge, it had taken the form of a wall mounted database – one of those evil head-grabbers – only there was no data. They entered the room, spent five minutes looking around before some sick sense of dread began gathering in Jack's stomach.

"Guys –"

They turned to him, and the light spilt in a sensory-killing torrent, temporarily suspending sound, touch, sight…

His last sight was Sam turning to him, backlit with white, those blue-sugar eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. He thinks maybe she might have called his name in the beginnings of panic, but afterwards things are so blurred, so uncertain.

He was the only one looking directly at the damn thing, and so only his eyes were affected, optic nerves bombarded, left cold and useless. No one knows how it was done, or how long it will last, if it will ever fade, or heal – no one knows. None of their offworld allies, and they're running out of people to turn to.

He remembered Lya's words to him, most of all. He couldn't think why. Perhaps because of her sincerity. It hurt her, to not be able to help, just as much as it hurt him.

He remembered a small cool hand upon his cheek. Soft words close to his face. Heartbroken.

"Oh, Jack. I am so sorry… This is a wound that I cannot heal…"

He'd heard Sam's breath hitch across the room. She was never far away, these days.

"Its okay, Lya," he told the Nox. "I'm okay. I will be."

It hurt him and Lya. But he thought that it hurt Sam more.

* * *

Late at night, that last sight played out against his eyelids.

Blinding light. Silhouette. Blue-sugar eyes. _Sam_.

He woke, and thought it the greatest injustice that in his dreams he could still see, and that someone he couldn't have was _all_ he could see.


	3. At Your Fingertips

**AN:** The lighter side of things...for now.

* * *

**At Your Fingertips**

When Jack was eleven he taught himself Braille. Whether out of curiosity or a sudden interest in the whole concept of codes and secret languages in general (he'd gotten into Morse code as well), he couldn't really say. Probably a combination of the two. In any case, it was one less thing to do now.

He set his fingertips to the page, feeling each word forming beneath his skin. This grouping meant S, this one A and the last one M.

He quirked a smirk at the woman sitting across from him. He always knew just where she was, just where to aim a smile.

"It's your name."

"You _do_ know it."

"Ever the tone of surprise…"

She was blushing. He could hear it in her stutter.

"No, sir – I just –"

"Retired, Sam," he reminded. "Lose the sir. Type me up something else."

"S – Jack?"

He grinned slyly. "Gives me an excuse to show off. Besides, Daniel doesn't know. Bet you a ham sandwich to blue jello he chokes on his coffee when he finds out."

She giggled.

"Hey."

"Sorry, I forgot; no giggling."

He waved it off with his left hand and rested his chin on his right.

"Ah, what the heck," he told her. "Knock yourself out."

He heard her chuckle softly under the rap-rap-rap of the Brailler. A sheet of clean-feeling paper was slipped under his hand.

E, A, S, Y, then space. M, O, N, E, Y…

Jack grinned again. "Very funny, Carter."

More giggling. "Well, c'mon, it is, he will. There is no way I would take that bet –"

"And loose perfectly good blue jello?"

"Yeah-sure-you-betcha."

Jack felt an irrational surge of pride.

Now, if he could just convince her to drive him up to his cabin…


	4. Gazing Off

**Gazing Off**

It was the eyes that got her.

Some strange consequence of his blindness had altered the colour of his irises, bleaching them from brown to an unnerving deep gold. They were still dark, still hooded and cautious, still Jack's eyes. But they were new, not only for their colour, but for their gaze.

He could still set his eyes upon her, just _so_, and _see _her. See _her_.

It would make her pause, and watch him in turn. And wonder. He always knew where she was, where to aim his smiles. Sam could walk like a cat when she chose, and yet he could still find her.

Others might have found it unnerving. Sam found it to be very faintly titillating.

There was a sort of pleasant frisson that moved over her scalp and skin when those strange eyes sought her with a smile, and the roughened velvet voice murmured, ever sardonic,

"Nice try, Sam."

She'd get there one day. One day she'd be able to sneak up behind him, put her arms around his unsuspecting shoulders…

But for now he could find her, and she didn't mind in the slightest. For now they broke down into laughing conversation, gently mocking each other, and he prodded her boot with his cane when she bragged she'd gotten closer this time, before he caught her.

Never once did those strange eyes leave her.


	5. Ruby

**AN:** Some of this might not be entirely accurate, but be kind. I'm not American, blind, nor writing anything of great importance. Ain't fanfiction great?

* * *

**Ruby**

He was at home when the Foundation called and said they would be sending someone out with his dog.

Jack paused.

"What dog?"

"Your guide dog, Mr. O'Neill."

"…right…"

This was the first he'd heard about it. Wasn't there supposed to be a training programme? An acclimation period? Something along the lines of a prep manual?

Anything?

Apparently not for him.

No, Jack O'Neill was getting a special dog.

Right now.

* * *

Sam arrived a few minutes before the AFB arrived with the pooch. "To help," she told him.

"Weren't you on duty today?"

He could just picture the look she was giving him. Blank innocence, polite puzzlement. She hooked one arm through his and said, smilingly, "Nope, not today."

Jack managed to give her an approximation of a sidelong glower. It worked, and she giggled softly.

"C'mon then," he muttered. "Let's go meet my dog."

* * *

Her name was Ruby.

It was a good name, Jack thought. Short and bold, to the point. Warm.

She was not what he was expecting.

For one, she was a little older than most guide dogs, and for another, she wasn't the typical Labrador either.

"A German Shepherd," Sam murmured doubtfully to the people from the Blind Foundation.

While Sam talked to the AFB people, Jack introduced himself to Ruby, holding an open hand out for her to sniff. She came forward and he could feel her pointed muzzle with its wet nose brushing his wrist. Jack could feel the big intelligent brown eyes boring holes in him.

She would be brighter than your average lab-retriever, that much was for sure.

* * *

He was right.

Two weeks later, some asshole thought it'd be a great idea to break into the local blind guy's house.

Wrong.

Ruby was waiting for him, with Jack behind her, aimlessly swinging a hockey stick and grinning like a madman.

"I wish I could have seen that," Sam said later the next day, rubbing a grinning Ruby's ears.

"Me too," Jack snickered.


End file.
